


Tiny Love

by CurseUndone



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley learning how to be nice to his plants is self-love ok, Fluff, Just gentle fluff, M/M, South Downs Cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22926868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurseUndone/pseuds/CurseUndone
Summary: It's not a sunrise over canyons shaped like heartsIt isn't bursting into song in Central ParkIt's not the outline of your face drawn in the starsIt's a "still there Monday morning" kind of love(A few short fluffy GO ficlets!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 72
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	1. Wedding Night

In the dark, Crowley stared at the ring on his finger. It was a simple thing, plain gold. He swore he could feel the inscription, _angel_ , pressing itself against him. They had it forged there like an endearment, like it was true. On Aziraphale’s, _demon_ ; they had it forged there like an endearment, like it was true, and it made Crowley shake with what his long-lived instincts wanted to name _despair_ , but it wasn’t. It was something so damned bright, so warm it spread through his whole body like sunshine, almost too good to be bearable. But he’d have time to learn how to bear it, how to live in it comfortably like it was nothing special at all.

They had years. Centuries. _Millennia_. They had until the end of time itself. They had _forever_. Not that metaphorical forever human couples wrapped themselves up in but the true never-ending expanse of forever. And Aziraphale would be there, right beside him.

Aziraphale’s warm arm slid around his waist and tugged him closer. He stroked Crowley’s side and whispered, “Shh, dear, it’s all right.”

“You’re going to be there tomorrow,” Crowley said, turning onto his side to look at him, embracing him, too.

Aziraphale smiled. “I will be.”

“And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

He laughed. The happiness in his face could almost knock Crowley unconscious. “I will be.”

He imagined it. A century from now, bickering about what plants to grow in the cottage garden. A millennia from now, reminiscing on the would-be Apocalypse with good humor while Aziraphale played music that was popular centuries ago. Criticizing each other’s fashion choices and wondering over new human pastimes and drinking the best new vintage, agreeing that _this_ would never go out of style. And every day they’d love each other.

“And you’ll be there, too, right beside me,” Aziraphale said.

“Forever,” Crowley promised.

And the warmth of it calmed him into a gentle sleep.


	2. I Love You

“I love you.”

To both their surprise, Aziraphale said it. It was a sunny day a few centuries after the Flood, and he and Crowley sat on a grassy hilltop, the wind tousling their hair and threatening to knock over their cups of wine. Aziraphale said it leaned back on one hand, smiling that warm smile so full of lazy contentment it could barely lift up. He hadn’t thought about it before he said it; it had entered his mind like the fact of the sunlight on his face or the bitter-cool wine at the back of his throat. It hadn’t been rebellion or nervousness or eagerness, not an angel reveling in the transgession of loving a demon, just— a friend loving a friend.

Aziraphale’s smile fell, some of that warm haze fading as he remembered who they were and where they were, on God’s good green Earth stationed as opposing adversaries. Crowley’s eyes were wide, his mouth slightly parted.

But before Aziraphale could open his mouth, Crowley softened and murmured back, “I love you, too,” not quiet because he could be overheard but because it was what the emotion demanded of him.

Aziraphale relaxed. He raised his cup for a toast and Crowley clinked it with his.

Later, they would pretend it hadn’t happened. They would go back to thwarting one another, and Aziraphale would remind himself of the irreconciliable nature of their two sides, and it would all be normal. But in those gentle times when they were together and the lines blurred and the air was filled with nothing but pleasant conversation and bickering nonsense and laughter and joy Aziraphale could taste in the air, they’d say it, one after another, gentle and heartfelt, and tuck those words into a special corner into their hearts reserved just for each other.

They said it in Rome. They said it on damp fields. They said it under starry skies. They said it in Paris. They said it on carriage rides. They said it in smog-filled London, in the bookshop and restaurants and each other’s homes and parks and parties and everywhere else where it could be just them in peace enjoying the fine feeling of uncounted time.

After millennia, it didn’t feel like pretending anymore, all that time between one telling and the next. It was waiting, quiet and content waiting, for the day when nothing stood between them. It was all right to wait. No matter what, they silently agreed, the other would still be there.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


	3. Without You

Years and years and years they’d lived, mostly apart.

They wake up beside each other in the home they bought together, surrounded by walls and rooms made up from the two of them, yet before this for all Aziraphale’s long life he’d known dark nights lit by candles, and for all Crowley’s long life he’d known cold mornings when he’d miracle up his own tea.

Those were good times, the quiet years, those normal days spending yet more time on that wide Earth with its endless variations, when no orders clogged their hours with expectation. Those were the years of appreciating good sunsets, good conversation, and the simplicity of all good things. It was a quiet year when Crowley bought the Bentley; it was a quiet year when Aziraphale decided to finally buy his bookshop. Aziraphale heard Beethoven in concert the first time alone. Crowley attended the premiere of _Much Ado About Nothing_ and laughed himself hoarse alone. Aziraphale somewhat overzealously bought his own printing press when it was invented. Crowley filled albums when the first Polaroid instant camera was invented. Once every few years (or decades or centuries) they would meet, and it would be sweet, reconnecting with the only being who understood each other’s references and groaned at old arguments and lost their heads laughing at shared jokes. It would be sweet, a sort of port in the storm between humans’ constant change and head office’s constant bottom line. But lunch would conclude or the day spent in the art gallery would end or hours of heavy drinking would see them sobering up.

They’d lived most of their lives alone, and it hadn’t been bad. Far from it: Earth was a joy as much as it could be a horror, and they loved it every day they spent breathing its air.

“I could have lived my life like that,” Aziraphale admits, because dreamy mornings in bed when the light was gray and the sleep still stuck in your eyes are the best times for confessions.

Crowley hums to show he is listening and squeezes Aziraphale’s hand where it lies against his.

“I would have been happy, I think.”

Sleepy orange eyes open just barely to look at him.

Aziraphale reaches out to cradle his jaw in his palm. “But you have always made the world so much brighter, my love.”

“Oh, sweetheart. You, too.”

They break out into silly delighted grins in the soft morning light.


	4. Garden

Aziraphale’s favorite thing changes from day to day; sometimes it is the book he’s reading, sometimes it is the way the sunlight fell through the kitchen blinds at sunset, and sometimes it is the warmth of a mug in his hands. Often it involved Crowley – his ridiculous bedhead, the way he slides his sunglasses on, the energetic little beats he taps on the steering wheel as he drives.

Today, Aziraphale’s favorite thing is waking up at noon to find a plate of miracled-warm pastries from the local shop on the kitchen table, then curling up in the windowseat that looks out into the garden where his dear demon works in the green and dirt. (Sometimes, Aziraphale’s favorite thing is less a _thing_ and more a _scene_ , but only because he is particularly blessed.)

When they moved in, Crowley had stood in the middle of the gutted garden (not being satisfied with the last owner’s attempts) with his hands on his hips and said, “How difficult could it be?” He bought dozens of seed packets, all manner of tools, young trees and bushes to plant, fertilizer, a better mister, decorations, and whatever else in the dead of night that the internet convinced him he needed.

The first day, he was outside from sun up to sun down and fell asleep against the doorframe on his way in, covered head-to-toe in dirt. Beyond him, the garden looked like a bulldozer had driven through.

“You can’t intimidate garden plants,” Crowley said after a week of this. He constantly picked at his nails, complaining that miracles never cleaned out all the dirt from under them. “They’re too full of themselves.”

“Maybe it’s time to take a different tack,” Aziraphale suggested lightly.

“Hmmph.”

Now there he is, years later, kneeling next to one of his rose bushes (one of many, the silly romantic, in all colors, though the reds were his favorite) and talking aloud to it. Aziraphale can’t hear what he’s saying through the glass, but by his grin he can guess he’s teasing or perhaps encouraging. Crowley has gotten better at that. He leans forward to cradle a red bud, then another, delicate with them as if they were spun glass, and Aziraphale’s heart aches to see that gentleness out in the world, unhidden, honest and true like Crowley always has been.

Something in Aziraphale wants to paint the scene in bold thematic colors, inscribing universal meaning in Crowley’s uncovered eyes and the nick on his thumb from a thorn, but the truth of it is that Aziraphale rests his head against the glass to watch Crowley walking over to the apple tree next (because of course there is an apple tree; Crowley had giggled all the while he planted it) and all Aziraphale knows is that he adores him, he loves him absolutely, he finds every piece of him charming, even when he thinks naming all the plants is ridiculous or rolls his eyes at another irritating quirk. There is nothing special about this morning except that it is theirs, and that today Crowley’s hair looks especially lovely in the sun, and that rather than continue with his routine and shuffle off to the library, today Aziraphale stands and joins Crowley in the garden to kiss him good morning and ask what mischief the plants have gotten up to.

Upon reflection, Aziraphale always found it incredibly difficult to choose only _one_ favorite thing a day. He would take it all.


End file.
